Shadows of the Past
by Mayachild
Summary: A grieving father, a scarred Death Eater. the memories of a lost ravenclaw and Sirius Black. In the department of mystreries the shadows of the death eaters are lengthening and no one can be sure of redemption...


I can still see you looking at me, you know. Yes, you realise I can see you now. That's right; avert your eyes, try to pretend your covert glances mean nothing...  
  
They're staring at my face again, those two women bustling hurriedly away on the other side of the street. "No, don't look back; keep eyes straight," I tell myself, "They can't help it." Somehow I walk down to the end of the street and up to my flat. My flatmate's not back from Knockturn Alley, I see- her olive muslin scarf is missing from the brass rack. It's only now that I wind away my own saffron headscarf, wrapped in heavy folds over my mouth and nose like a Muslim veil. It's what I've worn every day of my life since I was twenty-two years old, three months and three days old. One bad and special day.  
  
I move to the bedroom, settling myself on the end of the iron frame bed, idly watching the lights of the evening city rush by. But I've forgotten about the light. By now it's so dark, I can see my reflection in the glass of the window and for once, I don't close the blinds. Gingerly, I lay a hand on the left side of my head, my fingers tingling at the touch of exposed skull under broken skin; half-blind left eye sunken back; quiet smile drawn out into a ragged grin. My face, you see. No oil painting, but it could be worse, I know...  
  
It's not as if I've lost much anyway, not like my flatmate, since I've never been pretty. My father, when occasion required him to address his insignificant youngest daughter, would say that my raven-haired mother's beauty was excruciating, which, if he deigned to tell the truth, didn't sound the trouble it was worth. In my experience, looks can always be used to one of two advantages, to stand out or to hide away. With a nickname like Mouse, you can guess which option I chose.  
  
And it wasn't hard to stay hidden in a family with three striking sisters who all had far more inclination to succeed than I did. Rosanna, the eldest, took after our mother- passionate and determined, marrying into a wealthy pureblood family, while talented Xanthe, quickly made a name for herself as a prominent spokeswoman in the ministry. Even Jocelyn, far and away the most rebellious child of the family, with a blazing temper that could easily match my father's, eventually secured his good opinion, becoming an extremely proficient Curse breaker and on-off mistress for Lucius Malfoy's cousin. And naturally, they were all Slytherins. It was a trait Aloysius Ducelle expected of his daughters.  
  
It turned out to be an expectation I could not fulfil. When I entered Hogwarts, a relatively naive product of my eleven years, I took my place at the Ravenclaw table, my head still spinning with the confusion that the decision had produced. My sisters were astonished, and I suspect, pitying of my rather dull condition- quiet, bookish and shy at times. It was then that Rosanna, almost twelve years my senior, came up with my nickname, which gradually worked its way into my daily identity. By my second year, it was the only name I was known by, used by students and teachers alike, and in the many letters my sisters sent to me by our ancient black owl Morcilla.  
  
It was in my first year that she died. My mother, I mean; carried off by pneumonia in October. And so, her body was set down, in the orchard lining the avenues of our garden as all five of us stood by. When I look at myself now, I seemed innocent, unrealistic, being so unused to the alien realities of death. But I couldn't understand how under the boughs of flushing red apples, when everything else was coming to fruition, that a dead being could be lowered into that green earth. That was why I never cried.  
  
It wasn't that I didn't love my mother, or even that I never missed her. It was just pure shock that she was gone, like losing your voice mid-flow. You feel like it's still there, until you realise, your pulse racing, warm heart suddenly shot with glass; that all you hear is empty air. Dead, you stop; gasping out none-existent words, begging for sound, yet nothing comes. Until at last, you stare out blankly, until all you experience is white and cold. That is how I felt. But to cry, that would have been the worst thing of all. To confirm that there was no hope? To acknowledge that whatever was lost is gone forever? Slytherin or no, even I knew that as weakness.  
  
But let's not linger on unpleasant truths. Six months into my third year and I'm on my knees staring at the library floorboards. Surprised? Don't be. I was still my tiny four foot eight, still the girl I've always been, with the added comforts of horn-rimmed glasses, face pale as a vampire and a would-be boyfriend by the name of Gordon Bones, a rather pathetic hufflepuff. As to my up-close-and-personal acquaintance with the floor, it had been just arranged by one, Bryony Cartwright, a snarky Slytherin of Amazonian proportions. Slowly, I rose to my feet, breathing heavily, partly with the shock of the fall, partly with the seething rage that was building inside me, pressuring me to snap.  
  
"Why do you do this? Why me?!" I half-gasped out furiously.  
  
"Oh. No reason," she replied nonchalantly. Then a smile I had learned to hate flickered across her face. "You know your problem, Mouse," she marched forward, pushing me back against the bookcase, relishing my nervous look. "You're so weak that anyone would think you were made of glass. And you can't blame a girl for wondering..."  
  
"Wondering what?" I asked myself, a split-second before I realised what she was going to do.  
  
"If you'll break." She slammed my head into the shelf with a sickening crack, once, twice. Under the sudden nausea that swept over me, my knees buckled and I fell again to the floor, frame shaking with pain and shame.  
  
I knew quite well what others would have done in my position. My middle sister, Xanthe always had a clever remark to reduce the strongest to mental shreds; Rosanna, I know, would have strode away confidently, pride untouched; and if anyone ever dared throw Jocelyn to the floor, she would have sprung up like a spitting cat, screaming for blood. But- as you have guessed, I am none of my sisters.  
  
"That's right, mouse," Bryony sniggered, provoking more laughter from her hulking friends. "Crawl back to that hole you came from."  
  
As it was, it was all I could do to glare through hot tear-stained eyes at the retreating form of my swaggering enemy, as I threw myself back in a corner behind a neglected bookcase. Then I sat back and stared at the wall. How long I do not know.  
  
That, I suppose, was my first piece of luck. Good luck or bad, you shall decide. But it was luck, of a kind. Because if I hadn't been crying, I would have gone back to the Ravenclaw dormitories. Perhaps I would have gotten over it. Perhaps I would have grown accustomed to my allotted place in the world. Perhaps I really would have married poor dull Gordon, had a few freckled kids, and gone on to lead a suitably dull life in a semi- detached house in East Crinkleroot. But I didn't. I waited. And eventually, it grew late. The shadows began to lengthen beneath the arched windows, light faded, and the odd hushed whisper of a busy library grew silent. But not completely silent.  
  
"Lumos," a voice whispered into the gloom as the familiar globe of light blossomed in the gloom. My breath tightened instantly and I felt the worse for myself. I knew the speaker, or at least, the voice, soft and slightly husky. Her name was Elsa Flintlock and I had never spoken to her, nor she to me. Yet I knew her. How could I not? For she was head girl and I did not want to imagine the consequences if she discovered me.  
  
(  
  
Old Barnabas McKinnon had been the caretaker in the Department of Mysteries for longer than anyone could remember. If there were any who recalled his time of service, not to mention his age, then they were certainly long gone- the way of the cemetery or retirement. Indeed, there were some in the ministry who could have weeded him out years ago, but, to his immense surprise, they hadn't. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, for him, as well as being ancient, he was also alone, which does rather well if you want to be pitied.  
  
Not that Barnabus thought anyone should feel sorry for him. He was not a sociable sort of person and the attention made him nervous.  
  
He was a tiny little man, less than five feet, bent over like a wizened question mark, slightly balding and prone to shaking when spoken to. People didn't often do that nowadays, and when they did, they ended up walking away awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say. Barnabus had once thought it odd- the way that people reacted to him but after a while it dawned on him to accept people's attitudes as they were. He couldn't blame them; it was surely natural, even a bit endearing... Natural- that was it. How could people feel differently when they knew who he was. What had happened to him...  
  
But there were no strange looks now; he thought to himself as he hobbled along the long hall of the ministry; everyone had gone home to their families. He paused a moment to drop a spare knut into the golden fountain; which now, after a month's work, was restored to former glory. Well, that is to say the figures had been put back, although now the faces of the merman, centaur and house elf, scrupulously melted and moulded back onto heads, did not look quite so adoring...  
  
This constant silence was part of the reason why Barnabas liked his night shift so much. The other half of the unspoken reason was on the ninth floor. He took the elevator up to the department, netting a few escaped frantically fluttering inter-departmental memos as he went. At last the lift juddered to a stop, and the gates clanged back noisily. The corridor led him down towards the oval hall and the mahogany door beyond.  
  
"Algie?" he whispered out into the darkness of the hall before him. He waited a few seconds before calling again. "Algie!" At this, he heard a soft flurry of sounds from a remote corner of the ceiling and then the familiar flapping form of the Firebee, (a curious cross-breed of a firefly and billywig) which flitted above his head with evident, if misplaced excitement. He was one of the biggest antipodean varieties of his species and was consequently, more than usually magical, and, unfortunately, more than usually clumsy. "Come on, light up," requested Barnabas patiently. Algie complied with a faint buzzing that gradually grew to a hum as the light on the tips of his wings burst into iridescent blue flames. All at once the walls and floor began to half-swim with the swirling glow that filled the room. Barnabas raised his eyebrows slightly, for an insect; Algenon was a hell of a show-off.  
  
"Thanks," he acknowledged quietly while the Firebee alighted on the iron bracket in the centre of the ceiling. It would have been the work of a moment for him to use the Lumos charm but for him, it was a matter of principle never to carry a wand in his department- magic had destroyed it once and he had no wish for it to happen again. Besides, where he was going, he wouldn't need it.  
  
It did not take him long to find the right door and swiftly he was inside. Five months earlier you would have witnessed the unusual happenings of a certain June night, but now nothing remained to show for those except an even greater hush that refused to be broken.  
  
And there it was, straight in front of him. Most employees did not notice it and those who did ignored it. But there was only one arch; crumbling, true, and barely supported by its shaky frame, but surviving all the same, with the ghost-like pale drape hanging across it. Every now and again, there came an infinitesimally small ripple along it, as if some invisible floating bubble had gently brushed against the thin fabric. Barnabus did not quite understand this, but in some small way, at the back of his mind, it frightened him.  
  
He'd heard about the death, of course, as had virtually everyone. That escaped convict, a couple of months back, who'd fallen through the curtain. Fighting those death-eaters, or so he'd heard. Barnabus McKinnon did not like criminals, and at first it had puzzled him – that ironic blend of morality - evil fighting evil. 'Was it appropriate?' he wondered. He had always had a strong loyalty to his family, and the idea of fighting ones own kind was utterly alien to him. And yet, somehow, he did understand. Time had shown him things about himself that he did not expect, and this was one of them.  
  
In his opinion, Time had a lot to answer for. It filled the awkward space of blame, which God might otherwise have filled. He was not a particularly religious man, despite his upbringing (a fractured mix of his Mother's Scottish Episcopalianism and Catholicism from his father) and the absence of God left a gap. The real trouble was, that deep down, Barnabus believed in the decency of human beings. He knew they were flawed, but it was always hard for him to accept their cruelty. He knew full well the torn unhappiness of the world. And when the day came, he was unprepared for it.  
  
The events of that terrible day had left the questions lingering, like maggots, wriggling and consuming their way through his subconscious. And in the darkest moments of his life, the thoughts had come to him unbidden; questioning, demanding answers from him. There were days when he burned with despair for the loss of a few seconds; nights that could only be spent in utter wretchedness; beginning to resent the years that lay between him and the day that ruined his hopes. That was where his hatred had come from. Time had taken his youth from him and it had left him weary and shaken, yet determined in the only way a person who has seen many things can be. It had shown him truths and lies he wished he could forget. It had taken his daughter. It had stolen his grandchild.  
  
"No," he brought himself back with a shake, "No, that's not true."  
  
And unbidden, the faded images of a memory began to swim back into focus. A house. Not a large house, perhaps, but loved, nonetheless. A place to live. Halfway up a hill, with a winding path that a girl used to run up, braids flying round her face, becoming more and more unruly. The girl loved the house – oh yes. Now the memory shifted, and she was suddenly older. Brown hair unruly as ever, strong arched nose, and the same good-natured smile...  
  
A brave woman, no doubt about that. He remembered the day she had left Hogwarts, and what she had said, almost instinctively. He had stood in that hall; so proud, watching and waiting as she laughed with her friends, even hugging Professor McGonagall cheekily before running to him, kissing both his cheeks – and whispering, "You know what I'm going to do. Don't you, dad?" "Do what?" he asked reprovingly. "Don't tell me you're eloping with Tom Markfield because I won't have you using my good garden ladder...  
  
She grinned mischievously. "You'd never miss it anyway. But you're missing the point. You know what good marks I've been getting from McGonagall and from old Bartimus Fletcher and... and I can't help out in the three broomsticks forever, you know, Rosie can handle it herself now she's graduated. You see that don't you?"  
  
He smiled reassuringly, "I can see well enough, Em. You want to tell me that you want to move out and get a job in Glasgow."  
  
"Oh no!" she spoke out quickly, "Not leave Markham. Not for anything, no – I can apparate. And if you'd let us, Tom wants to come to – no, don't say no! He won't play any loud music, I promise; and he's grown out of the Clash; he won't mention the Smokey Robinsons in the house! We won't even-"  
  
"I wasn't going to say anything," put in Barnabus swiftly.  
  
She smiled anew.  
  
"But you should know. I'm going to be an Auror."  
  
And the old house, darker now, as his memories swam forward six years. He could almost see it now; the whispering grasses on the hillside, the silent cries echoing through the night, and himself, running, running. Running so fast his legs half buckled, straining muscles, lungs half-bursting, and all the while, the mocking shape in the sky, hovering malevolently above the house. The sign which no wizard in the world would fail to fear with all the terror in their heart. A grinning skull.  
  
Closer now, the front door blown straight from its hinges, broken glass and furniture overturned. Here and there, the smashed remains of vases, the cornflowers scattered in the wreckage, and the water, soaked into the carpet like blood. At the living room door there were signs of a blockade, the acrid scent of shattered wards, and the splintered bookcase crazily angled against the frame. And beyond, only bodies. There were four in the living room; at least, that was as many as Barnabus could bring himself to find that night. At first he could see only Alice, his niece, sprawled beneath a cabinet that had fallen in the chaos. Then, to his left, the limp body of her husband, his eyes still open, frozen in the moment of death. Finally, huddled in a corner together, Mark and Marlene, his hand over her face, her arms wrapped around him.  
  
Somehow, he brought himself to search the rest of the house but he found no more. The obliviators found his niece's son the next day at the bottom of the cellar stairs. But even they could not find the sixth body. She was found at the post mortem. Marlene had been pregnant.  
  
The darkness closed in on Barnabus. Suddenly his knees buckled, he clutched at the broken stone of the arch and stumbled against it. "Oh my dear..." he whispered to the cold stone, to the longhaired woman he could not see. Slowly, held-out tears began to trickle down his tired face. "You never knew, did you..."  
  
It was a long time before the strength returned. When the morning came, he went home and he lived and forgot and remembered. Just like everyone else living after death.  
  
Barnabus has eight months now, though he doesn't realise it, and it won't be three months before a woman will come to visit him. She won't stay long; the veil is quickly unwound. He knows instantly, instinctively; who she is, what she is. The legacy of a grinning skull contorts her bone structure, corroding away the girl who hid and lost herself to others.  
  
The introduction to Elsa Flintlock was the beginning, if there was one. Violently in love with death and black magic; it did not take long to align along new paths and forms, leading to Prague, to the dark initiations; the path of a Death Eater. It was Nathaniel who shepherded her then. He was six years older than her, and it showed. Striding confidently through every life in Prague. She loved the way he argued, forcefully drawing strings of thought together into a rope of conversation that he alone controlled. Predatory and arrogant, it wasn't long before he took her virginity, one slow night before the awaited return to England. A few intimidations in the following months were all she was involved in; the dark lord was patient in those days, he could wait. A few years were all he needed. As it turned out, she had only ever been required to kill once; some backwater place where a troublesome few had to be disposed of.  
  
The real trouble had come when she had been traced. All this was after His fall, as you might imagine, when everyone was confessing and trials were happening all the time. Two aurors on her doorstep, just what she needed. Of course, she knew his name now; the dark one, the one who had broken the wards. She wondered if he'd known that the resulting shield would rebound the curses, that the window would shatter like that, that the shards would glitter so unutterably bright as they hailed down. Too much to hope, she supposed. What was his name again?...Cyrus...Severus ...?  
  
Sirius. That was it. Wasn't it him again who found her wand afterwards?  
  
Sandalwood, twelve inches, and one mooncalf hair – it hadn't been hard to link her to the deaths. But they were not to find her.  
  
She thinks that's why she's here now, in this strange little living room crying into a stranger and wishing, ever desperate for those four syllables that dance around her life, around her sisters, Elsa, Nathan, and the two lifeless bodies that lie glassy and blind in the dark places of her memory.  
  
I forgive you. The words come painfully. Barnabus tilts her head up, and looks into the girl's face, reconstructing his daughter from the ugly angles and tired lines.  
  
"Oh Lucy..." He speaks slowly and with difficulty, as she hears her name for the first time in twenty-three years.  
  
"What have you done..." 


End file.
